The mixed blessing of solitude.

I spend a lot of time alone — taking walks by myself, meditating and doing yoga, writing and reading, listening to music.

My husband spends most of his day in his home office.

Our paths cross in the kitchen, a snack for me/a drink for him. A drink for me/a snack for him. We talk about what’s for lunch, and what’s for dinner. Snippets of today’s news (ugh), movie suggestions for a night out. Chitchat that becomes a kind of interlude between all the things I do in solitude.

When I head out for a walk, there’s almost always some inner chatter in my head — a sentence I’m struggling with in an essay or story, something I plan to do later in the day, someone I intended to call and exactly what it was I wanted to say — I can’t believe it’s a month since you’ve been back from your trip. I want to hear all about.

Okay, so the moment passed, I got diverted for any number of reasons, inconsequential or otherwise. Intention counts for something, doesn’t it? I can still make that call and explain — I meant to call, really I did. Maybe I should at least send a text when I get home. . . .

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